


you're the only enemy you ever seem to lose to

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: The Other 51 [34]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Acephobia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Asexual Alexander Hamilton, Because Hamilton is incapable of saying the word 'no', Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Acephobia, M/M, Supportive Aaron Burr, Teacher AU, implied dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9577319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: “You don't enjoy sex.”“I don'tgetsex," Hamilton clarified. He closed his eyes wearily. “Why would I want to have sex? Why would anyonewantto have sex? I feel like the world is in on some kind of inside joke, andI don't get it,” Hamilton buried his face in his hands. “But I'm trying to. I'm desperately trying to get it, trying to fit in. Practice makes perfect, right?” he forced a smile onto his face.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do a Professors AU, but I also desperately wanted to write ace!Hamilton. It became both.

Aaron Burr dragged a hand across his face, feeling exhaustion settle in around him like a well-worn cloak despite only having taught two classes that day. His senior class had just let out, after having spent a good portion of twenty minutes alternating between begging and cajoling him to move their final test to another date. Apparently, their English professor had set a hand-in date for their main paper for that same day, and Alexander Hamilton wasn’t exactly known for his willingness to compromise.

Then again, Burr wasn’t _most people_. He was something of a prodigy, having gotten into Princeton at the tender age of fifteen, and had graduated two years later after holding arguably the best valedictorian speech in _years_. He had a reputation to uphold.

He still remembered the first time he had met Alexander Hamilton. It was roughly a week before class started, and they had their first full staff meeting, which meant over a hundred over-educated, angry people crowded into a sultry room, the majority of them angrier than a beehive. Burr loved the fact that, for the most part, department meetings sufficed, as well as the fact that the theology department was one of the smaller ones. Thus, he had been able to avoid interacting with the vast majority of the teachers all summer. That bliss was about to come to an abrupt end, along with any semblance of anonymity.

He was sitting in a corner, sipping at a cup of coffee and mentally berating whoever thought it was a good idea to schedule a staff meeting at seven in the morning, when his vision was overshadowed by a mop of brown hair. Burr blinked. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw that nearby teachers inched away from him. He forced himself to look at the intruder. Light skin, dark-brown hair, and disproportionately large eager chocolate eyes. Burr's own eyes studied his face before finally settling on his mouth, which was already going off at ten words per second. “—so anyway, it will be quite an honour to be working with you, Mr Burr sir,” the man kept talking and _oh God does he ever shut up._

“Who are you?” Burr cut the enthusiastic man off rather brusquely.

The man blinked. “Alexander Hamilton. I'm the head of the linguistics department.”

 _Lovely_. That meant that Burr had to tolerate, even _cooperate_ with the man, seeing as most of his future students would also be talking Hamilton's class, whichever it was. “Really?” Burr said neutrally, face and voice devoid of emotion.

“My main focus is English, although I sometimes teach French and Spanish as well,” Hamilton continued brightly. “But honestly, I think that _learning_ languages isn't the most important part of what we do. Linguistics is, at its most fundamental part, about understanding the workings of language. Why is it that we have different languages? Why do they change over time? What is the best way to learn or teach a language? How does the language of literature differ from other kinds of language?” Hamilton stopped for a breath. He didn't seem to realize that conversations were a two-way street.

Burr took that as an opportunity to regain some semblance of control over the conversation. “Fascinating," Burr murmured in a tone that implied the conversation was over.

Hamilton misinterpreted his voice. His face took on an affronted expression. “Languages _are_ important, Aaron Burr,” he insisted.

Burr raised his palms in surrender. “I know that. You don't need to convince me,” he placated.

Hamilton frowned. “It sure sounded like I needed to,” he responded.

“How did you know who I was? I'm not the only new professor this year,” Burr posed the question before Hamilton could get wired up again. Within five minutes of knowing the man, two of which were spent on studying the form of his lips, he could tell what kind of a man Alexander Hamilton was. He gave off the kind of air that said 'I am right and I will fight you if it's the last thing I do'.

Hamilton shrugged. “I know things,” he said evasively. “It's not important.”

Burr raised an eyebrow, but before he had a chance to formulate a reply, Washington stepped up onto the stage, and the meeting commenced. With a grimace of distaste, Hamilton left to sit with his own department, and Burr heaved a relieved sigh.

During the lunch break, Hamilton once again latched onto Burr. Burr, having picked up a few things from his previous interaction with Hamilton, simply let him talk to his heart's desire.

He learned that Jefferson had once broken his wrist trying to impress James Madison a good four years ago, and that had social anxiety but was desperately trying to hide it. He learned that Hamilton was strangely protective of Jefferson, despite hating the man's guts, and that Hamilton was the only person allowed to make fun of Jefferson. He learned that Hamilton had once been dating the French professor, Lafayette, and had only broken off because he had fallen in love with Eliza Schuyler, but the point was, Hamilton said in one breath, that Lafayette was that he had once been tricked by Hamilton into believing that Hamilton could talk to ghosts, and could Burr believe Hamilton had managed to pull that off?

Burr learned that Washington's deputy, John Adams, had once managed to forward the wrong file to the board of directors, having attached his private — and somewhat erotic — poems to the board instead of his annual report. Hamilton only knew this because Madison, who was on the board, told Jefferson, who told Lafayette, who told him.

Columbia's resident physicist, Benjamin Franklin, Hamilton informed Burr somewhat gleefully, once wrote a paper on why farts smell. Since then, Washington has forbidden Franklin from being in charge of any official papers — up to and including the fiscal budget for his department — fearing that he'd put a joke in it. Franklin, Hamilton said, even had his own fan club, which the head of linguistics referred to as Franklin's mafia, and which constituted of more than half of the student body. Franklin sometimes used them to communicate with other teachers, and they were the most efficient communications network on campus—certainly far quicker than the university e-mail, which Hamilton advised him not to use except under dire circumstances.

“I actually resigned from my last job because I felt I wasn't being paid enough,” Hamilton went on, and Burr wanted to slam his head against a nearby wall. Hamilton had clearly never heard of oversharing. “I'm bi, by the way, hope that's not a problem—“

“Why would it be a problem?” Burr blinked at the non-sequitur.

Hamilton shrugged. “You know, religious people aren't always the most open-minded of people.”

“Okay, _first._ ” Burr held up a finger. “Just because I teach theology doesn't mean that I'm religious.”

“Well, _are_ you?” Hamilton squinted at Burr.

Burr rolled his eyes. “Yes, but that's beside the point. That was incredibly judgmental of you,” he scolded. “You can't just make generalizations right and left.”

Hamilton winced but didn't apologize, instead going on about how rumour had it that Washington had once drafted his dear friend, James Madison, into composing an email from him to the board of directors, who was incidentally on that same board. The board then all but pleaded for Madison to write a reply to Washington; the consensus was that, all in all, Madison had written himself four separate emails. Hamilton knew _that_ because one of his favourite students was an IT major who hacked into the university website on a regular basis.

All of this, Burr had learned within the first five minutes of conversation.

“Talk less, Hamilton," he advised the man, because God only knew how he hasn't been fired yet, with that mouth of his. Hamilton frowned. Burr's lips quirked upwards. "And smile more. You have a beautiful smile,” he complimented almost off-handedly.

Hamilton's returning smile was well-worth the torture of listening to the man.

Later, as they were gathering their things, Burr was approached by Sally Hemings, one of the three other theology teachers. “I'm sorry about that,” she began apologetically.

Burr blinked. “Sorry about what?” he probed.

Sally winced. “About leaving you alone with Hamilton. Nobody quite dared to approach him in order to rescue you.”

Burr kept an indifferent expression on his face, but his thoughts were swirling. Hamilton wasn't _that_ bad. Sure, he was vexatious, and he talked incessantly without any regard for personal space, but he wasn't a monster.

Burr did not voice his thoughts, however, instead asking the question that had been burning on his tongue ever since meeting the short man. “Who is he, really? He knew who I was, yet I have never met the guy. Washington only introduced me officially today.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “It's not exactly a secret that Washington treats Hamilton as his own son.”

“I see,” Burr said at length.

Sally smiled reassuringly. “Don't worry. He takes interest in virtually every new person; it's almost like a ritual. He will get bored eventually.”

⚥ ♥ ⚪

Contrary to Sally's claims, Hamilton did not get bored. If anything, the more he conversed with Burr, the more interested he became, which continued to puzzle Burr.

The rest of the teachers had taken to betting whether Burr would murder Hamilton before Hamilton could drive Burr into resigning. The collective staff of Columbia University, with the notable exception of Washington, seemed to operate under the impression that Hamilton was a heartless bastard who wouldn't know a compromise if it bit him in the ass.

“They've got the bastard part right,” Hamilton griped one evening as he and Burr were playing Scrabble in Burr's office—Hamilton's being too cluttered with paperwork and various books to find sufficient space for the board.

Burr himself was viewed as something of an exotic enigma who should be unwrapped—one of the French professors in particular made no secret of her interest in him, even as Burr made it equally obvious that the interest was not reciprocated. Plastering a bland smile onto his face, Burr gave away bits of information only if necessary, internally hoping that everyone's interest would turn to one of the other newbie teachers, but to no avail.

Interestingly enough, while Burr found everyone else's inquisitiveness frustrating, he didn't mind Hamilton's perpetual nagging. It was almost endearing, and that very thought was disconcerting in itself.

He finally decided that Hamilton's company was pleasant enough, as Hamilton was an intelligent individual. This became a little problematic when Burr realized that he was attracted to Hamilton three months into their acquaintanceship. Yes, Burr had, since day one, been aware of Hamilton's attractiveness. He was also aware of Hamilton's licentious nature and his intrinsic inability to be in a steady relationship. Hamilton didn't seem to be able to be faithful to one person for longer than a week, not since his marriage had fallen apart over Hamilton's affair with one accountant from HR by the name of Maria Reynolds. Unhappily married for close to ten years, if the rumours were to be trusted—and Burr had found that the rumour mill among staffers at Columbia had a frightening accuracy.

Despite Hamilton's reputation as a libertine, there was no shortage of candidates—of both genders—who thought that they could 'tame the beast', so to speak. To Burr's knowledge, nobody had succeeded as of yet.

Burr had no interest in being simply another in a never-ending line of Hamilton's conquests, so, even as Hamilton continued to intrude on his personal space, Burr kept his careful distance.

Of course, Hamilton disregarded any and all attempts Burr made at keeping a fine line between them. He intruded on his time alone, and there was scarcely an evening when Burr didn't find himself in the company of Columbia's foremost linguistics professor. Of course, the fact that Hamilton seemed to have an obsession with Burr and strove to spend every free minute of his life in his company didn't change the fact that the man didn't seem to sleep for more than five hours, even on days off. He still set quite frankly ridiculous assignments for his students, assignments Burr himself would have struggled to complete.

Which brought Burr to his current predicament: his students were suffering because of Hamilton's inability to see that his students didn't spend every waking minute working on their essays for him. Burr resolved to do something about it.

Hamilton always assumed that people would simply change their decisions to adapt to his wishes. It was just his way of viewing people. It was too bad that reality didn't work that way. Immovable object, meet unstoppable force.

He found Hamilton's class just as Hamilton was about to wrap up his lesson, and waited until the majority of students had left before entering the room.

Hamilton noticed him immediately. He seemed to have an Aaron Burr homing beacon. “Mister Burr, sir!” he said brightly. The few students remaining in the classroom scattered upon seeing his grin. Burr concurred with them—Hamilton’s smile rarely boded well for _anybody_.

“Hello, Hamilton,” he began calmly. “I need to speak with you.”

Hamilton rolled his eyes. “It's Alexander. I've told you that before. What can I do for you?”

“Move the assignment hand-in date for your senior,” Burr said bluntly, knowing from experience that it was the most effective way of conveying anything to Hamilton.

Hamilton smiled. “Which one? I have two different senior classes.”

“The one for your English majors.”

“I have two English major classes,” Hamilton drawled. “You need to be more specific, Burr. I swear, this is why students think you're weird.”

“My students love me,” Burr defended himself.

“Only because they don’t know what an actual disaster you are,” Hamilton snorted. “They only think of you as this mysterious enigma because they don’t really know you. You refuse to take a stand. Ergo, you're weird.”

“I prefer to think of it as giving my students a variety of viewpoints without enforcing my own opinion—”

“What opinion?” Hamilton scoffed.

“—on them,” Burr continued seamlessly, as though repeating a well-worn argument, “which you _do_. It’s unprofessional, Alexander,” he reprimanded.

Hamilton shrugged. “I simply make my point,” he said, carrying his notes back to his office.

Burr followed him. “Repeatedly,” he shot back. “Strongly enough to come off as an uncompromising terror with a heart of stone. Once you settle on something, you won’t be swayed even if you know the other side is right.”

“At least I _have_ a heart.”

“Harsh,” Burr clutched his heart. “However will I recover?”

Hamilton snorted. “And you call _me_ a drama queen,” he took a seat on his couch.

Burr smiled charmingly. “Move your assignment, Alexander,” he sat down next to Hamilton.

Hamilton pouted. “And here I was hoping that they’d at least have the guts to come to me themselves, instead of sending you,” his expression then grew stern. “Burr, these students have had _months_ to prepare their thesis. It’s not my fault that their organizational skills are non-existent.”

“Not everyone can spew out twenty thousand words in one day,” Burr reminded him, “nor does everyone operate on caffeine and sheer stubbornness.”

“Thomas Jefferson does,” Hamilton insisted.

Burr rolled his eyes. Thomas Jefferson was Columbia’s resident professor in architecture; Hamilton had been clashing with him since day one—or so Sally claimed. The only reason Washington hasn’t yet fired either man was that they were too bloody competent for Washington to realistically be able to find a replacement who would be able to keep up the same relentless pace as Hamilton, or get the same results as Jefferson.

“This isn't about Jefferson,” Burr shot back. “This is about you pushing your students to their breaking point.”

Hamilton bit his lip, and Burr nearly sighed in relief as he realized that he was finally getting through to him. If there was one thing Hamilton _did_ respect, it was health. Burr heard from Sally, who heard it from Lafayette, that in college, Hamilton allegedly worked himself into a frenzy while working on three majors, skipping sleep and meals for whole weeks, until he finally collapsed where he was standing. It took a week of hospitalized care for him to regain some semblance of strength. James Madison, who had pulled a similar stunt, still hasn't entirely recovered.

“How bad are we talking?” Hamilton eventually asked Burr uncertainly.

“Very,” Burr said succinctly. It got his point across.

Hamilton sighed. “Fine,” he conceded, and Burr smiled smugly. “ _But_ ,” Hamilton continued, “that means that I'm going to set the bar higher in terms of quality. Tell that to your students.”

“ _Our_ students.”

“No student of mine has any problem with any of my assignments,” Hamilton huffed.

Burr didn't smile, nor did he reply. Instead, he watched as Hamilton all but collapsed into the couch, letting his eyes close. The anxiety that has been doubtlessly building up throughout the day seemed to evaporate, though Hamilton's face was still creased with worry.

“Are you alright?” Burr asked gently. He reached out, his hand hovering hesitantly over Hamilton's shoulder, then retracted it.

Hamilton grabbed a nearby pillow and pressed it into his face. “No,” he said, his voice muffled by the fabric.

It was Burr's turn to bite his lip. “Do you need to talk about it?”

“It's just—“ Hamilton began. “It's John.”

Burr blinked. John. That would probably be John Laurens, Hamilton's most recent catch. So it was _that_ kind of conversation. Oddly enough, Hamilton had previously avoided any reference to his love life while talking to Burr. “As in, your boyfriend?”

“Ex. We just broke up. Well," Hamilton snorted, " _he_ broke up with me.”

“I wonder why,” Burr said sarcastically.

Hamilton raised his pillow from his face and glared at Burr. “It's not my fault.”

“Let me guess,” Burr said, “you slept with Ames again.”

“Troup,” Hamilton corrected him habitually. “So what?”

“ _So what?_ ” Burr echoed incredulously. “You don't pull that kind of shit when you are in an exclusive relationship with another,” he said, ignoring Hamilton's widening eyes when he cursed. “Hasn't anyone taught you that?” he asked rhetorically.

“Why?” Hamilton leered. “Are _you_ volunteering to be my teacher?”

Burr snorted. “In your dreams, Hamilton.”

“Alexander,” Hamilton said reflexively. “And I know for a fact that you keep checking me out.” His smile was pleased, but there was a hint of _something_ in his voice that Burr couldn't identify.

“I'm not going to be another one of your one-night stands, _Alexander_ ,” Burr quietly but firmly refused Hamilton's offer, “no matter how attracted I am to you—and believe me, I am _very_ attracted to you.”

Hamilton snorted. “Yeah, right,” he said, disbelief evident in his tone. “If you were, you'd sleep with me. That's how it works.”

“I don't know what kind of society _you_ grew up in,” Burr retorted, then reprimanded himself for allowing Hamilton to get him all worked up, “but here in New York, we have a this little thing called self-restraint"—his voice was practically dripping with sarcasm—"which we exercise whenever we are in an exclusive relationship."

Hamilton didn't answer, instead choosing to stare at the ceiling, which, while a beautiful shade of green, wasn't nearly interesting enough to warrant the scrutiny Hamilton was giving it. His smile slipped, and he looked bitter for a second, only to be replaced by a forced grin. " _I haven't the faintest_ what you're talking about," he said lightly.

Burr huffed. "I don't suppose anyone has ever told you that it's okay to stop," Burr muttered rhetorically.

He looked over at Hamilton, who had strangest expression on his face—as though Burr had stabbed him with a blunt knife and left him to bleed out on the ground. Hamilton swallowed a sudden clump in his throat. "Of course they have," he said resolutely.

Warning clocks began to go off in Burr's head. He decided to falsify a theory that had never occurred to him before. “Why _do_ you always sleep around like there's no tomorrow?”

“Because that's what people _do._ " Hamilton sighed. "That's how we're _supposed_ to behave. We— _I_ am supposed to _want_ that.”

Hamilton's words knocked the air out of Burr's lungs, leaving him speechless. “Hamilton—there's nothing wrong with wanting to let off some steam, but it stops becoming okay when _people get hurt_.”

If Burr hadn't been watching Hamilton as carefully as he had, he would have missed the myriad of emotions flickering through his face at the speed of light. His expression finally settled on resignation, like he knew that what he was about to reveal would dissuade Burr from associating with him in the future. “Maybe I _don't want_ to let off some steam, huh? Have you considered that?”

Burr narrowed his eyes. “What.”

“I don't know what I'm _supposed_ to want. I don't want it. But you're the same, right? You only _pretend_ to be so attracted to people—but, deep inside, you know it's not important. Not as important as a person's personality, or their likes or dislikes. _It's not important,_ ” Hamilton repeated, sounding like he was trying to convince himself more than Burr.

“What's not important?” Burr persisted.

“You know. _Sex_ ,” Hamilton emphasized, spitting the word out like it was a disease.

Burr blinked at the sudden attitude change. “Let's rewind a bit, because I'm fairly sure there's a communication failure here somewhere,” he said carefully. “You don't enjoy sex.”

“I don't _get_ sex," Hamilton clarified. He closed his eyes wearily. “Why would I actively _want_ to have sex? Why would anyone want to have sex? I feel like the world is in on some kind of inside joke, and _I don't get it._ ” Hamilton buried his face in his hands. “But I'm trying to. I'm desperately trying to get it—trying to fit in. And, you know, practice makes perfect, right?” He forced a smile onto his face.

“Is that why you slept with Maria?”

Hamilton nodded slowly. “People are supposed to feel attracted to everyone, right? People have _affairs_. And, intellectually speaking, Maria's a very interesting person. I like her. Aren't you supposed to have sex with people you like?”

“Not _all of them_ , and not if you don't like it,” Burr said firmly.

“But that's what everyone says. Sex is the only thing boys want and think about. All boys want sex.”

“Who told you this?”

“People back on Nevis,” Hamilton murmured, opening his eyes eyes to stare at Burr plaintively. “They—let's just say that most had numerous relationships. I've always known that romantic entanglements are an essential part of life, and with those came… the physical aspect of a relationship. I honestly didn't understand why people did it, but my friends went on about how good it always felt to have sex with someone—mostly girls,” he grinned, “though I had one semi-closeted gay friend who once blushingly admitted that he really was more fond of his own gender. People all around me keep having sex.

“I eventually assumed it was just one of those unspoken rules of society: nobody found it as pleasant or as 'necessary' as they claimed, but nobody admitted that they were lying. Kind of an inside joke that all of society was in on. Except I wasn't—in on it, I mean—but I was determined to be, no matter what it took.”

Burr would he lying if he claimed that his heart didn't ache just a little at hearing Hamilton's story. He would never have suspected _Alexander Hamilton_ , of all people, of being asexual—because, from the sounds of it, that's what he was. It simply went to show that the more one discovered, the more one realized how little they truly know a person.

“Is it really so terrible a feeling?” Burr asked softly, feeling oddly rude for making a scientific inquiry when Hamilton was clearly suffering.

“It's like—" Hamilton hesitated. Clenched his fist. Opened it again. “Like there's this bulb in my throat, except it's in my stomach, and I want to feel sick and throw up but it's in the way and I can't, but I always assumed everyone felt like this and just _got over it_ and—“

“Most people don't feel like this,” Burr countered quietly. “It's not good for you to force yourself into something that you despise enough to feel physically ill just at the thought of.”

“This is why I like talking to you,” Hamilton suddenly said. “You're here, and you don't try to pressure me into anything I'm not comfortable with. I just feel like you are my only safe place. I don't have to worry about not fitting when I talk to you, because you don't exactly fit in either. We can not fit in together,” he forced a smile.

That was… kind of sweet, especially coming from Hamilton.

Hamilton shut his eyes. “Well, we _could_. Before. Now, though—“ he cut himself off. A tear ran down his cheek. Burr had never seen Hamilton cry. “You know. That I'm not exactly what one would consider _normal_.”

Burr drank in the sight of Hamilton like this—vulnerable; bare; not pretending to be anything he wasn't. He let out a breath. “I know that our society glorifies sex as something that solves all problems," he began carefully, "like it's some sort of ultimate goal, and that everyone should be having it all the time, but _that's not how it works,_ Alexander. It's not mandatory to feel sexual attraction, or to have sex. Friendships and romantic relationships without sex can be just as fulfilling as sexual ones, or even more. Not every fulfilling relationship has to be sexually, or even romantically, charged. You can have intimacy without sex. Sex without love exists, so why is it so hard to imagine love without sex?”

Tentatively, Burr reached out and gently cupped Hamilton's cheek. Hamilton—no, _Alexander_ , it has been Alexander for a long time now—cracked one eye. “What—what are you saying?” he said, voice cracking at the end.

Aaron's lips quirked into a soft smile. “I think you know what I am saying.”

“Say it anyway,” Alexander pleaded. “Please.”

“I want to date you,” Aaron said bluntly. “I want to get to know you. I want to grow to love you. I want to see whether we can work. I want to give us a chance.”

Alexander closed his eyes. “As lovely as this sounds—and believe me, there's pretty much nothing I'd rather do, since I've been in love with you pretty much since day one when you chewed me out for being a bigoted asshole,” he didn't give Aaron a chance to react to his words, ploughing on, “there is one teensy tiny problem. You're going to want sex. You're going to _need_ sex. Maybe not at the beginning, but you're going to want it eventually. Everyone does. And I don't know if I can do that, not now that you know about my little problem.”

“It's not a _problem_ , Alexander,” Aaron said fiercely, causing Alexander to flinch back at the emotions in Aaron's voice. “It's a part of you. Never view yourself as the problem. Also, unlike some people,” he continued pointedly, having perfected passive-aggressiveness to an art, “I have enough self-control to keep it in my pants. Besides, sex isn't exactly the most important thing in my life. I've managed to go on for years without having sex—it's not world-changing for me, nor is it my top priority. It's not as big a deal to me as you make it out to be.”

“Burr—“ Alexander started to speak, only to be cut off.

“Aaron. I think we've arrived at that point.”

Alexander cracked a grin. Aaron cherished it, even as he knew it wouldn't last. “You say that you are okay with this now, but what about when—“

“Alexander, I think you should see something.”

It took a trip to Alexander's desk, five minutes' worth of digging through his papers to find his laptop underneath an abandoned essay on a global issue of some sort, but Aaron finally found what he was looking for: AVEN's webpage.

“Read it,” he prodded Alexander, sensing the man's reluctance.

Alexander met Aaron's eyes. Aaron held his gaze, until Alexander gave in. He squinted at the laptop, and Aaron shouldn't find this as adorable as he did. “'An asexual person is a person who does not experience sexual attraction,'” he read out loud, then reread it. His brain, usually so fast, was remarkably slow in absorbing this new information. His eyes rose up to meet Aaron's once more. “Tell me this isn't a joke.”

“It's not,” Aaron assured him. “I wouldn't do anything like that. I'm not _cruel_.”

“No, I suppose you aren't,” Alexander hummed. “ _'Unlike celibacy, which is a choice, asexuality is a sexual orientation.'_ ”

“In other words, it's perfectly natural for you not to feel any sexual attraction,” Aaron said. “It's not a choice you've made, just as I haven't chosen, upon entering adolescence, to be bisexual. The attraction—or the lack thereof—is quite beyond our control.”

If someone had told him that he would be sitting on Alexander Hamilton's couch on a Friday evening, introducing him to the world of asexuality, he'd give the person one of his patented 'I think you are an idiot and I need you to stay at least five feet away from me' looks, and yet here he was.

One wouldn't suspect him of knowing about such things, let alone being as supportive as he was, seeing as how he did grow up in a family of conservative religious traditionalists, but he was a firm believer of not committing his family's mistakes. He didn't want to be as narrow-minded as his parents, as paranoid, as afraid of the unknown. He made a point of educating himself, so that he could understand others' point of view, so that he would not fear others. It opened up his eyes to a lot of matters, and made him realize that, as much as he loved his grandfather, he had his faults.

Growing up in his parents' legacy, Aaron often felt like he wasn’t enough. He knew that it was irrational, but he couldn't help it. Trying to live up to an ideal was never easy, no matter the ideal; it was nigh impossible when said ideal was that of a pair of unparalleled geniuses. He strove to make sure that others wouldn't have to feel the same way, not about matters that were beyond their control. Sexual attraction certainly qualified.

So there he was, watching Alexander as the other man, bit by small bit, discovered that he wasn't a freak, wasn't broken — and there was nowhere Aaron would rather be. This was the reason why he had become a teacher in the first place: to educate people in an effort to improve their lives. He sat by Alexander's side, patiently answering each question Alexander posed.

Around midnight, Alexander closed the laptop, snuggling into Aaron's side. He looked up at the other man. “Thank you,” he murmured quietly.

It was nothing, Aaron wanted to say, except it wasn't nothing, not for Alexander. For Alexander, it meant the world. He squeezed Alexander's hand, interlocking their fingers. “My pleasure.”

Alexander grinned, then pressed his lips against Aaron's.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I do the subject justice? I sincerely hope so.
> 
> History fact: all those random stories about the Founding Fathers? All taken directly from real life.
> 
> On another subject, does anyone have any decent superhero/villain names? All the ones I come up with sound like they're taken out of cereal commercials.


End file.
